


I Fell For You

by queenscribbles



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Meet-Cute, POV Second Person, this is all an elaborate call out post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenscribbles/pseuds/queenscribbles
Summary: You, dear Reader, are doing temp work at Overwatch, and one of the many perks of working at such a large and important organization is the possibility of running into celebrities in the hallways. This can be a little disruptive though.





	I Fell For You

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Pride Month! I've been listening to 80s love songs for two full days now.
> 
> Thank you, Aether, for being my beta, and everyone else—especially you Micky—I hope you enjoy ;3

You work for one of the most diverse and flexible organizations in the world. Yet even the awesome power of Overwatch is just barely held together by a legion of pencil-pushers. Your mother had immediately made her misgivings known when you admitted your interest in working for a multi-national military organization over dinner (pork chops) one night. It wasn’t easy making her see that it was no different from any other data entry job that someone in your position might take while they figured out their next step in life.

The technology at Overwatch is more advanced than you imagine it is in most offices, and you are paid better. But your desk, the computer that lives there, and the pink plastic tray beside your monitor could be found anywhere. Most of your work day is spent in front of your computer, typing up the information from the pages left in stacks in your inbox. A job like this could be punishing in its monotony, and in fact your first couple weeks were boring as hell. There are only so many hours in a day you can spend listening to audiobooks and podcasts before things start to get weird.

Luckily for you, during your third week your overseer spotted one of the sticky notes you left on your desk and had been _impressed_ with how bad your handwriting is. “If you can read that, then you might be able to read Harris’s chicken scratch.” And you could. So now you get to work with the personal logs of some of the less tech-savvy agents of Overwatch instead of the stats you started with. You spend your days listening to music while you read and then type up journal entries from the coolest people on the planet. Your mother was so wrong and you are _still_ smug about it.

For the most part, your job keeps you so far from the action that you don’t even see the soldiers you’re working with. However there are exceptions.

For example: Today for some fucking reason it has become your duty to deliver some important data from your department to a squad leaving for the front today. Most of your coworkers are very good about sending their requests in advance. Most, but not all. In particular, you'll occasionally get last-minute requests from soldiers mere hours, or sometimes _minutes_ before their outfits are leaving. This is the worst.

So, now, you find yourself running through the halls—and it has to be urgent to get you to run in these heels—with a folder of important paper and a scrib with the same information on it, including some images (in particular a couple of three-dimensional blueprints) that couldn't be printed in time tucked under one arm.

The officer that had requested this stuff only submitted his request about ten minutes ago and then he somehow expected you to get it to him five minutes ago. When you'd tried to explain over the comms how printers and file transfers worked, he had yelled at you! This was of course completely unfair, because obviously none of this was your fault. But sometimes rather than confront injustice it’s a better idea to turn the other cheek, seethe silently for a few days, and then ‘accidentally’ misplace some paperwork that they’ll have to redo at a later date. Quiet victories are still victories, and vengeance tastes sweet.

You're so out of breath, so irritated, so caught up in your own thoughts, that you don't notice you're about to collide with a soldier until it's already happened. You bounce off of the blue uniform—a fact which is miraculous on its own, because it felt more like hitting a wall than a person, no give whatsoever—and fall flat on your back, papers and ( _Shit!_ ) the scrib falling to the ground with you, clattering loudly in the hallway which has otherwise grown silent. Or maybe you only think it’s quiet because your ears are ringing? Who the hell did you run into? Maybe an omnic? Did your head hit the ground and you're concussed now or did you just startle yourself into some kind of state of shock?

You look up, a little dazed and see...the most beautiful woman you have ever laid eyes on. She’s so tall (you love tall women) and incredibly built (you love strong women) and her hair is pink. You love pink, it’s your favorite color, and this is your _favorite_ shade of pink! She has the kind of haircut you would compliment her on if you stood behind her in line at the coffee shop on the corner, not just because it’s pink, not just because it’s cute, but because it’s a cut only sapphic girls would go for. You refuse to believe it’s just your probable concussion rattling around in your skull when the thought occurs to you, _I am in love_.

In your state it takes a moment to realize you have seen this stunningly beautiful woman before. You’ve seen her on magazine covers, in online articles, saying _You're ready, so get in the ring!_ , on motivational posters, but never in person.

You know who this is! _Zarya_! Aleksandra Zaryanova, Olympic star and Russian hero. You don’t know anything about wrestling, but you have followed this woman's career closely since discovering who she was.

You remember two of your friends giggling as they looked at something on their phones. When you’d asked, one of them had pushed their phone across the table to you. “Look at athlete in this year’s Olympics! She is exactly your type.” Your friends knew you too well. They were right and they were mean and they had made fun of you when you asked, breathless, “who is she?”

Destiny has brought you face to face with your longtime celebrity crush because destiny is an _asshole_. What is she even _doing_ here? Your face must be bright red. Ah! And you only half-assed your makeup this morning! This is a nightmare!

You manage to scramble into a sitting position and voice a startled, “ _Oh!_ ”

“Miss, I am terribly sorry! Have I hurt you?”

Fuck, Zarya is talking to you. Fuck, she is kneeling beside you. Fuck. Her beautiful face, concern written across her perfect features, is blocking your view of anything else. You can’t look away.

“Your face is very red. Are you okay?”

You babble uncontrollably, voice several octaves higher than usual. It’s possible only dolphins can hear you as you rush to say, “ _Yesyes! Oh I’m sosorry I ran right into you! I’m fine I’m fine! This isn’t the first time I’ve been knocked down hahahaha! I just needed to get some paperwork to—_ ”

She cuts you off (thank god), “Are you always this nervous around soldiers? I won’t hurt you.”

You clamp your mouth shut and swallow very deliberately. You take a steadying breath before you begin again. “Well. No...” you glance from her face, eyes alighting on her biceps instead, “No, just you make me,” you pause to swallow again, nervous. “Sorry.”

“Oh!” Zarya smiles at you, a pleased flush dusting her cheeks now. “Are you a fan of mine? Here!”

She extends an arm, and you think she is going to take your hand and use it pull you up off the ground. If you get to hold her hand, you think you might die of delight.

“I’ve got you,” she says, and she doesn’t take your hand. No, instead Zarya firmly grasps both of your shoulders and stands, lifting you gently from the floor. You dangle midair for just a moment before she sets you back on your feet. You wobble in your heels. You weigh nothing to her, like she was lifting a stuffed toy and not a fully grown woman.

It’s hard to breathe.

Zarya laughs, “I did not expect anyone to know me in America!”

Zarya takes her hands off of your shoulders so she can flex her arms, posing for you like she is standing victorious on the cover of a magazine.

You gasp, stars spotting your vision, and without Zarya’s large hands steadying you, you swoon.

The hallway goes black and maybe you feel someone catch you in their strong, supportive arms, or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

You wake up confused and disoriented some time later. You are lying on a cot in the med bay, which is odd because this is a space generally reserved for _actual injured soldiers_ and not thirsty gay losers like you.

“Thank goodness you are already awake! We just got here. My apologies! I must have stood you up too fast.” Zarya is again hovering above you, looking concerned. It’s just the two of you in this room. Did she carry you here? If you find out she did and you missed it because you were unconscious you will be very upset.

You want to laugh all of this off, probably mumble something about your anemia and social anxiety. Then Zarya will go away and you can die of embarrassment in here alone and in peace.

Instead, your heart pushes words out of your mouth before your brain can catch up.

“You’re beautiful,” you say.

Zarya blinks, and then gives you a bemused smile.

You close your eyes and pray that this time, instead of fainting you’ll fall into a nice, long coma.

No such luck. You are still very conscious and very aware of the awkward silence filling the room.

You open your eyes to see that Zarya is leaning towards you. She chuckles under her breath and it's the most amazing sound you have ever heard. She’s still smiling as she says, “Thank you for the compliment. You should know I find you quite charming, as well.”

Zarya’s blue uniform really brings out the colors in her eyes, you notice. And her smile has this knowing and proud quality to it. Confidence like hers is hard to look away from, and she lifts your spirits up with her own. You lean forward, just a little. You’re starstruck, but this time it isn’t a collision and it isn’t low oxygen in your blood. You’re still staring into her eyes and your lips part slightly...

A thought suddenly occurs to you! “ _Shit!_ ” you announce. “Montoya’s going to kill me if I don’t bring him those files!”

In a moment of impressively quick thinking and uncharacteristic boldness, you shove your nametag into the hands of the woman of your dreams and scramble off the cot. Thankfully, your papers and the scrib are on the table beside the bed and the scrib only has one new crack on the screen. It's still usable!

“My work extension is on the back! Thanks for um sweeping me off my feet! I’ll buy you coffee as thanks if you want!” you yell, and then you run away. You run for your life because that is what smooth operators like you do.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Micky. Here's her [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sopranoscreams/status/985939031501492229) and her [Tumblr](http://punderfully-pink.tumblr.com/). Go follow her so you can make fun of her or thank her. Up to you.


End file.
